


Rhetoric

by eldritcher



Series: The Heralds of Dusk [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel thinks back to her cousin's scheming and remembers that he had a flair for rhetoric. Miles away, fighting the Valar, Maglor thinks the same as he starts the retreat to Formenos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhetoric

“Where it began,” Melian said quietly as she came forward to embrace Galadriel. 

Galadriel did not reply, instead choosing to disengage herself from the embrace and walking over to where Celebrían stood surrounded by Celeborn, Elrond, Erestor and Thranduil. The quiet peals of Celebrían’s laughter were as birdwings fluttering over bare skin. 

“And here we have the prodigal!” Thranduil made an extravagant flourish directed at Galadriel before stepping away.

Celebrían did not take after her, Galadriel reflected gratefully as she found herself assaulted by her daughter’s enthusiastic embrace. Celebrían knew forgiveness and compassion. Celebrían knew to accept the past and move on. 

“I wish I was as you,” Galadriel whispered inaudibly.

Celebrían’s clear blue eyes came up in silent question. Galadriel smiled, another smile she was forced to don for the sake of pretence, and kissed her daughter’s cheek. It felt smooth and it felt warm. Of their own accord, her fingers came to clasp her daughter’s wrists and she was overwhelmed by the steady pulse that met her touch. 

“She is well.”

It was Elrond now, gently prising her fingers away from her daughter’s wrists. There were oval circles left on the fair skin where she had pressed down. 

“Naneth?” Celebrían asked again, her eyes round and worried. Galadriel felt a bubble of hysterical mirth rise in her. “I promise you everything will be fine,” Celebrían said firmly. “I saved Maglor. I will not let you come to harm.”

“Chrysalis,” Galadriel said quietly. 

“Stop being vague,” Celeborn commanded. “Where is the battle, Bría?”

“On the plains to the north of Tirion,” Melian replied. “They retreat further north as we speak. The forces from Valmar led by Oromë are as a juggernaut. Maglor has failed to hold the southern flanks. Finarfin fares no better with the eastern flanks. Eärwen of Alqualondë”, Galadriel flinched, “she says that aid is needed - badly. It has been a rout.”

“Ulmo will not aid us then?” Mithrandir asked, taking in the group of dour faced Telerin sailors that ringed them.

Melian shook her head. 

“Nienna is dead,” Celebrían said then. 

Galadriel’s hand came of its own accord to Mithrandir’s wrist. Nienna had been his patroness. The halls of Nienna in the uttermost west had been his haven for years unnumbered.

Glorfindel broke the silence that fell saying, “Of them, she was always our succour. Our tears were hers.”

“It is folly to exhibit wisdom,” Mithrandir said quietly. “But in the direst of misfortunes may the opportunist find chance. Are the roads to Tirion clear?”

“Yes, the trade roads are clear,” Celebrían replied. “You intend to ride to Tirion then?”

Galadriel willed her fingers to still from their shaking. Then she said calmly, “Glorfindel and Mithrandir know the road. They shall lead you there. I will meet the Queen and follow you.”

“Galadriel-” Erestor began, his eyes glittering in suspicion.

“I know the roads and will come to no harm,” she said crisply. “They need warriors. I am not a warrior by any definition. Go on. I will join you at Tirion.”

“But-” Erestor began again.

Elrond’s hand came to his friend’s shoulder and he said quietly, “We are needed at the battlefield, Erestor. Let us not tarry. Celeborn will remain with her.”

“No,” she said curtly only for Celeborn to give a long-suffering sigh and put on an expression of calm determination. She swallowed her words. 

“It is decided,” Glorfindel said, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “Mithrandir and I will lead us to Tirion.”

“The way we came,” Galadriel said quietly.

His eyes turned darker and he nodded. 

 

“How fares the game?” Oromë asked Tulkas after the first day of battle.

“They say that Artanis has disembarked at Alqualondë,” Tulkas said slowly. “Melyanna received her.”

“What can she do that a King and a Prince have failed to do?” Oromë enquired. 

“I had not expected that Manwë would allow her to set foot upon these lands,” Tulkas replied.

“Manwë intends to see her crushed on all fronts before she is submitted to judgement. She has stirred them into rebellion, Tulkas. It cannot be ended quickly by taking her to the gallows. She must lose, she must cower and she must be given time to experience remorse at its craggiest.”

“What of Olórin’s allegiance?” Tulkas asked. “He has never sought to rebel.”

“Nienna was his patroness.” Oromë’s expression turned thoughtful. “He will not rest until he learns the truth.”

 

Maglor Fëanorion had never been renowned for gentleness. Even those who were sympathetic to his causes would have flinched on seeing him after the first day in battle. Oromë had ripped through Maglor’s defence lines, forcing them to run and retreat as the Avari had once fled from Gorthaur. The comparison did nothing to aid Maglor’s temper. He had raged, riled and tried to spur his warriors into desperation-driven courage. All in vain.

The warriors did not know him. They were unused to his harsh words and unorthodox defence formations.

“An ambush?” One of the men was saying. “But it is not chivalrous! That is not how warriors fight.”

“If you would tell me what chivalrous technique of fighting might avail us to keep our lives at dusk tomorrow, I shall certainly accede to your brilliance.”

The men stared at him. He suppressed a sigh. He was used to braver men - men, hardy and unaffected by misfortune’s dice games - men who did not need to be convinced. The men Maglor led now were unconvinced by the cause and frightened by the wrath of the Gods. 

“Lifting our swords against the Valar,” one of the men squeaked in terror, staring at the skies above as if they unveiled a great doom. “It will never be forgiven!”

“The Gods have been slaughtering you,” Maglor said. “I hardly think that is cause for penance.”

The men were horrified, he realised belatedly. Blasphemy, as his brother would often point out, was an acquired taste. 

 

“Is it very painful?” Maglor once asked after an interlude of languorous passion wherein he had united their bodies as far as nature would permit.

“It is an acquired taste,” had been the murmured reply from lips still pressed against Maglor’s forearm. “Just like blasphemy and other vices of mine.”

“Why cannot there be simpler vices?” Maglor had asked wearily. “Need you always embrace the most exacting ones?”

“Would you rather that I deflowered my warriors, wrote odious paeans to blushing maidens barely of age and brought down the ire of angry kinsmen upon my head? Life would be mundane, terribly so.”

Maglor had smiled then. It was so very easy to smile when his brother’s relaxed body was draped over his own. There, for ethereal moments in time, Maglor could be assured that his brother was alive.

“I was serious,” he felt compelled to say.

“I am fond of my acquired tastes - be they vices or not. Seeing that one of these tastes allow us to enjoy transcendental congress, why do you seek to reform me?”

“Not reform,” Maglor had muttered. “Fear.”

The tousled head had come up then and fire-flecked eyes met Maglor’s brooding gaze.

“Don’t,” said his brother quietly. “Let me fear.”

“What?” Maglor had asked in bewilderment, only to gasp when his companion’s lips trembled finely on the taut skin under which his heart beat. 

“To live with fear is an acquired taste,” his brother had breathed. “A taste I would rather that you did not cultivate. My vices are mine because they are not meant to be yours.”

 

His brother had left him. Maglor had pleaded on his knees and his brother had left him. 

 

“You cannot continue this way, Prince Maglor,” Círdan had said after the mariner found him wracked by grief and delirium wandering the shores on a stormy night.

“What is it to you?” Maglor had asked bitterly.

“Sail west,” Círdan had urged. “Prince Maedhros has ensured that you will have Elbereth’s favour. Your mother waits.”

“I cannot leave Artanis alone,” Maglor had whispered. “I have lost my brother. I will not lose my cousin.”

 

Now his cousin had stepped on the shores of a land that she had been once proud to call home. He remembered her proud form tugging the sail ropes to unfurl the canvas of the Telerin ship when the spirits of their host had flagged and waned. He remembered his brother’s lithe form leaping onto the rails and grasping those ropes before stirring their followers with words of promise and reassurance. 

They had taken his brother. Was that not reason enough to spare his cousin? A peal of thunder overhead broke his thoughts. Reason had no place in the lot that was theirs. Oromë had shown neither compassion nor hesitation when decimating them. The brunt of the assault had separated Maglor from Finarfin. He wondered how his uncle had fared. Oromë had concentrated on driving Maglor to retreat further north, cutting them away from the roads to Tirion and Valmar. 

Maglor knew well that if he did not spur the men to courage all would be lost tomorrow. How had his brother done this?

 

Nírnaeth Arnoediad had been the greatest defeat they had suffered. They had lost everything, Maglor knew. Allies were decimated, Beleriand was taken, Fingon was dead and courage in the hearts of their surviving warriors was extinguished. They would never rise again.

“Halt!” Maedhros had called as they reached the foothills of the western peaks beyond which lay Ossiriand. He had then removed his armour and shoved it aside before walking to the rocks that faced them.

Maglor tried not to admire the grace which had not left his brother’s form despite the many days of wild retreat from Beleriand. His heart leapt into his throat when Maedhros began clambering over sheer rocks.

“Stay,” Curufin had murmured when Maglor dismounted and began running after his brother.

“What does the fool think he is doing?” Maglor barked, trying to shake off Curufin’s grip on his forearm. “He could break his spine if he falls from there!”

The warriors were all staring at the spectacle. Those whom Maedhros had commanded on the eastern marches of Himring were unsurprised, Maglor noted in panic. How often had his brother done this? The others were stunned by the sight and were whispering to each other, often throwing nervous, imploring glances at where Maglor and his brothers stood. 

Maglor cursed for the umpteenth time that day. Terrain as this would not be easy on even those in possession of four strong limbs.

“Careful, Prince!” 

It was one of the Naugrim. The Naugrim had acquitted themselves most valorously in the fray. They had not shirked from where the blow had fallen the hardest and not a sixteenth of their host had survived. The retreat had been mad and frenetic. The Naugrim had fallen behind since they had no cavalry. Caranthir had felt guilty about abandoning their most loyal allies to slaughter. But self-preservation had ruled the day. 

Some of the Naugrim had escaped because they had been between the vanguard led by Turgon and the retreat led by Maedhros. Maglor had been at the forefront with Turgon. But of what he had heard from his brother’s men, the retreat had been as a gale, inexorably sweeping along everything in its path. 

“I am always careful, my friend,” Maedhros called down as he clumsily negotiated another outcrop in the course of his ascent. 

Maglor felt impotent wrath rise in him at those words. His brother’s definition of carefulness was flawed, to say the least.

“Here we are!” Maedhros exclaimed as he faced the defeated host. “Now, if I can reach here with the aid of three sorely used limbs,” he pulled up his tunic to reveal the stump of his right arm that was Angband’s legacy, “then whyever would you walk as living corpses when you are all blessedly better off than me?” 

The host quieted and Maglor’s chest constricted. 

“Victory does not make a man!” Maedhros declared. “A man when driven against the wall, who still stands erect and takes the blows of fate with his head held high, bleeding, and bruised and pale; that is the man who will win at the end. That is the man who will defy fate. We win only when we are not afraid to fail!”

“Hear! Hear!” crowed a man who had lost both sons that day.

“I cannot see the reason in his words,” Maglor said wearily even as courage rose as a cresting wave in the hearts of men. 

“Rhetoric is a better tool than reason in times of adversity,” Curufin remarked.

“They will doom us, they will curse us, they will deny us peace!” Maedhros continued. “Why? They fear us! They seek to destroy us because they cannot break us into obedience. Will you walk as corpses bereft of life when blood runs warm under your skin? Live for today! Learn from our past, hope for tomorrow, but live for today!”

 

“The Noldor were once renowned for bravery,” Maglor said as he climbed onto a rock facing the frightened men. “Lesser sons of worthy men are they now!”

“The Valar-” began one of the men. “Our forefathers have paid for their mistakes. Will we condemn ourselves as they did?”

“Turn yourself blind then!” Maglor said scathingly. “Turn yourself blind, deaf and mute. Chain yourself and lick the offal of those who cared not! Why did Moringotto take the East? Why did he destroy our lives? Petty rivalries of the Gods. Finwë was no blasphemer. He believed in the Gods. Indis believed in the Gods. Why were they killed? If those who rule have condemned the believers to the same fate as that of the rest, where rises the question of belief? What awaits you is the same regardless of your beliefs. Self-preservation might be served better if you expend effort to defend yourself instead of defending your beliefs.”

“Lord Maglor,” one of the oldest men spoke up. 

“Spare me your rhetoric and speak through your sword tomorrow!”

The man smiled and continued despite Maglor’s scowl, “We cannot defend ourselves against Oromë’s might here, milord.”

“I am tired of hearing what we cannot do. For once, tell me what we can do.”

“We can retreat to Formenos,” said the man. “The city will withstand a siege.”

 

Finarfin cursed as Tulkas drove him across the plains. Tirion’s walls were in sight. 

“I am glad that my forefathers did not choose to leave for the East,” Hórëon said tiredly as he tried to muster the retreating soldiers into formation. “I wonder how those who went East survived.”

Tulkas had not slaughtered as Oromë had done. Finarfin had wondered why. The men he led were men born and bred in Valinor. They had been trained in arms for namesake. Some of them had fought in the War of the Wrath. But it had been again for namesake. The frontlines had been manned by the troops led by Gil-Galad and Elros. Finarfin had been present only in a ceremonial capacity. Then the might of the Lords of the West had been on their side. 

Finarfin felt the mildest flicker of pity for the Easterlings who had been routed then just as Finarfin was being forced to retreat now. Defeat was inexorable. Tulkas was toying with them. The Vala could have crushed them with his mighty host at any point in the battle. But he had let Finarfin take the course of retreat to Tirion.

“Are they going to torch the city?” Hórëon wondered. “Why else would he let us survive?”

A raven called sentinel as they retreated towards the walls of Tirion. Gates flung open and archers covered them from the ramparts. But Tulkas and the commanders of Valmar’s host made no move to chase them further, instead choosing to lay siege to the city and making camp for the night. 

“Arafinwë!” 

It was Nerdanel. Finarfin dismounted and walked towards her saying, “Rout. Macalaurë was cut off from the main host. They say he retreated north with one-tenth of the flank.”

Nerdanel blanched and spoke a single word.

“Formenos.”

 

Galadriel considered it one of her finest achievements when her words finally prevailed over Erestor’s counsel. Erestor was a dangerous opponent when it came to words, his suspicious nature making it unspeakably difficult to convince him. It had taken numerous reassurances by Thranduil and Elrond before Erestor succumbed and agreed to let her remain in Alqualondë.

But he ensured that he pulled Celeborn away for a quiet word or two before following Mithandir and Glorfindel to Tirion. Galadriel frowned. Celeborn was not a wordsmith, but he was tenaciously adept at prodding awake the paltry remnants of her conscience. 

 

“Conscience has no place in love, they say,” Maedhros had remarked once. “They are wrong. He has succeeded in stirring my long dormant conscience. I had no compunction when using Findekáno to gain my ends. But I cannot even contemplate the thought of dragging Káno into the whorls of my life.”

“You rarely call him so,” she had noted. 

“I always call him so in my heart. It is precious to have something of him all to myself, even if it be a disyllabic name. The rest of him I cannot own, keeping in mind the dictates of my reawakened conscience. We all need fantasies to keep going. His name is the key to mine. Might a day come when I can call him so and own all of him?”

 

Of course, that day had never come. Galadriel turned to drink in the sight of Celeborn standing upon the stairs of the palace watching the riders fade away down the road to Tirion. A smile, the first true smile since she had disembarked, escaped her. She was luckier than her wretched cousin.

“My dear silver tree,” she said and watched in reverence as Celeborn turned to bestow a confident smile at her. 

“Ever yours,” he promised jauntily.

He nodded at the palace where was enthroned Eärwen of Alqualondë and offered his arm. She twined her hand in his and they ascended the stairs together. 

“She resembles you,” he remarked. 

“She has always resembled you,” she said frankly. “I am glad it is so.”

“No, Altáriel. She resembles you now. I was not speaking of physical appearance.”

“I would not have it so,” she said quietly. “I would not have another take after me. Contrary to popular misconception, I am fully aware of my flaws.”

“Even the finest are flawed. And you, my dearest Altáriel, have always been the finest of us.” 

“Flatterer,” she muttered, trying not to let her weary heart bask in the glow of his words.

“Cynic,” he responded. 

“Cynicism is hardly a quality of the finest,” she remarked.

“Perhaps that is your flaw then.”

“When did you learn to bandy rhetoric?” she asked in mild surprise. “I have never seen you indulging in the vice.”

“I live with you, after all. Perhaps your vices have permeated my being.” 

He sounded so smugly pleased by the fact that he had surprised her that it was all she could do to keep herself from laughing. He grinned- that rakish grin which had never failed to make her heart clumsily skip a beat - and then he leant in to kiss her full on the lips right before the entire populace of Alqualondë under the aegis of Varda’s skies.


End file.
